The King of Sleep

by Caiseal Mor

  It was at that point Dalan noticed there were flames leaping from a strange copper cauldron in the center of the ring. Then he realized the air had turned chill and he had left his cloak down by the pool.

  But Dalan’s curiosity was aroused so he easily shrugged off the cold. He’d never seen a sight like this before. Here was a cooking fire built within the walls of a cauldron instead of around the vessel. As a scholar of ritual he knew that to reverse the purpose of such an everyday item was a potent symbol, one that might be considered unethical by many learned Druids. There could be only one purpose to such a ritual—the conjuring of powerful spirits from the Otherworld.

  Dalan shook himself to drive away a nagging intuition that he was in danger.

  “Why were you seated in the center of this circle?” he inquired, choosing his words carefully.

  Sorcha stood absolutely motionless. No sound passed her lips. Her dark brown breacan cloak obscured her shape and the hood now covered her head completely. There seemed to be no form to her at all. But Dalan noticed her hand move to her belt.

  “Is that a knife you have there?” he stuttered, stunned at the possibility that he might be threatened by one of his own kind. All the most disturbing stories he had heard about this notorious cult of the redcaps were coming to mind. Some folk said these renegade Druids soaked the ground in blood to feed their sacred mushrooms and imbue them with their deep red hue.

  Sorcha threw back her cloak to reveal a hand firmly placed upon the handle of a long bronze half-moon sickle which was thrust through her belt. “Don’t come any closer,” she warned. “Until you can give me some proof of who you are.”

  The Brehon frowned. “I thought you recognized me from Fineen’s description. I am called Dalan. I’m a Brehon judge.”

  “How do I know you’re telling the truth?”

  “I’m a Druid. I’m sworn to truth.”

  “But if you are merely posing as a Druid, the truth would not be important to you.”

  “What are you talking about? Who on the whole island of Innisfail would want to impersonate me? And to what end?”

  “The real Dalan has dangerous interests,” Sorcha noted. “I wouldn’t want to upset the folk he’s chasing.”

  Suddenly he began to understand her concern. “You mean the Watchers?” he asked.

  “Do I?”

  Dalan thought now that she was wise to be so careful. “How can I prove to you that I am who I say I am?”

  “That’s your problem.”

  “I have my cloak,” he offered.

  “What cloak?”

  “It’s made of Raven feathers. No one else has one like it. I’m famous for it.”

  “I’ve never heard anyone mention that Dalan owned a Raven-feather cloak,” she replied with suspicion in her voice.

  “I’ll show it to you,” he told her. “Just wait here while I fetch it.”

  In the next breath he’d disappeared back down the side of the rock. He jumped to the ground and ran to the pool to grab his cloak. In a flash he was clambering back up the rock face.

  “Here it is,” he told Sorcha and wrapped the beautiful black garment around his shoulders.

  “It suits you well,” she observed dryly. “But it doesn’t in any measure establish your identity.” She stepped closer to the edge of the circle of mushrooms to have a closer look. “It’s a very fine cloak. I’ve never seen anything like it. Where did you get it?”

  “Cuimhne gave it to me,” he replied.

  “You’ve met Cuimhne?”

  “She’s been my guide in the spirit world since before the Battle of Sliabh Mis. I’ve traveled with her many times.”

  “Then I will trust you,” Sorcha declared. “I also have journeyed with Cuimhne. Though he chose to present himself to me as a man.”

  “But the Cuimhne I know looks almost exactly like you!” the Brehon protested.

  “Then I believe you truly are Dalan the Brehon,” she sighed with relief. “For when I met with Cuimhne he took a form which closely resembled you. He must have known we would need to recognize one another.”

  Sorcha’s hand dropped away from the sickle at her belt and she bowed her head. “Forgive me,” she whispered. “I hope I didn’t cause any offense to your rank and experience.”

  “There’s nothing to forgive,” the Brehon assured her. “It was right for you to be so careful. These are dangerous times. But tell me, how did you know I was coming to visit you?”

  “I am a practitioner of the Frith. I learned that you were involved with the Watchers and sent word to Fineen the Healer asking him to track you down. He is well known to you, I believe.”

  “Indeed he is.”

  Dalan raised an eyebrow, impressed at this woman’s vocation. He could name barely a dozen Druids such as himself for whom the gift of future-seeing came unbidden. In this form the Sight was known as Faidh. But he knew of only a few who had mastered the craft of Frith. It took a brave and confident soul to summon such visions at will.

  The method of summoning visions varied from one practitioner to the next. Some would partake of a medicinal concoction. Others would chant or dance their way into a trance state and there experience the world of the Frith.

  The most common method in former days had been the eating of the mushrooms specially prepared so that they did no harm to the body. But this practice had been largely abandoned as it took great discipline and self-awareness to ply the craft of Frith this way. Misjudge the amount or the lateness of the season and the result could be death or madness.

  “Well, Fineen passed this way with his apprentice Sárán before the onset of winter. The healer told me of your suspicions about the Watchers and Sárán told the tale of his experience with Isleen.”

  “The poor foolish boy was led on by her,” Dalan nodded. “He was very fortunate to come away from the experience unscathed.”

  “You’re certain this Isleen was a Watcher?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “I told Fineen the part of their tale I know. He said you would be excited by what I had to say. So I had an inkling you’d seek me out at the first opportunity.”

  Dalan frowned, still a little unsure whether this meeting was merely a strange extension of his dream. Try as he might he could only see the face of his spirit guide, Cuimhne. In fact, now that Sorcha was closer, the resemblance was even more disturbing.

  She drew the hood of her breacan cloak away from her head and Dalan was surprised to see that she was growing her hair in the same fashion as he’d adopted. Her hair was matted in thin, tangled masses of brown that were longer and much more unruly than his own.

  “Why did you choose to wear the Druid-locks?” he asked.

  “I’m awaiting advancement,” she replied. “My teacher suggested I abandon my attachment to outward appearances. I will cut my hair when my instruction is completed.”

  She paused, obviously feeling more comfortable in Dalan’s presence. “And why do you wear the matted hair?”

  “I have told no one else of this, but I vowed not to cut my hair until I had solved the mystery of the Watchers,” he told her. “Do you live in the forest?”

  A broad smile lightened Sorcha’s face. “Of course.”

  “How long have you lived here by the spring?” he ventured, intrigued by her solitary lifestyle.

  “I don’t live here,” she replied, stifling a giggle as if the idea were ridiculous. “I have a house on the other side of the hill. It is my duty to light the morning and evening fires at this spring and pay homage to the sun.”

  “You keep the Ritual of the Sun?” Dalan asked.

  “I do.”

  “Few practice that rite in these times. And fewer still dare to cultivate the mushrooms.”

  “Few understand the true meaning behind much of what I do,” she countered defensively. “Many among the learned Druid Assembly look on the Ritual of the Sun as archaic nonsense beneath their dignity. Some among the wise believe this rite involves the dra
wing of blood from sacrificial victims. And others only see it as a practice which does no harm but does not bring any good either.”

  Dalan avoided her eyes.

  “Which are you?” she asked him.

  The Brehon coughed uncomfortably. “I long ago decided not to take sides in such matters,” he replied diplomatically. “I believe each person has the right to their own beliefs and to the veneration of their own gods and goddesses. I only asked because I’ve never seen the rite performed, nor met a Druid who really knew anything about it.”

  Sorcha laughed again. “You’ve known plenty of Druids who practice the Ritual of the Sun, they just didn’t reveal their knowledge to you. The rite is very ancient. It harks back to the Empire of the West in the days long before the destruction of the Blessed Isles.”

  “Why wouldn’t my colleagues tell me if they were involved in such a rite? What have they to be afraid of?”

  “There were those among the Druid Assembly in the ancient days who used their wisdom poorly,” Sorcha explained. “According to tradition a dozen dissenters deserted their kinfolk to make alliance with Balor of the Evil Eye, he who brought the Watchers into being. From these treacherous Druids Balor learned the Ritual of the Sun. He instituted it among his own folk so he could invoke the elements to perform his enchantments.”

  “So that was the source of Balor’s strength!” Dalan exclaimed, beginning to see the whole tale in a new light. “He used this ritual to create the terrible weapon known as the Evil Eye. I’ve often wondered where he learned his craft.”

  “He gained it from the twelve Fir-Bolg Druids who offered him their knowledge,” the woman explained. “And when the Druid Assembly learned what these renegades had done, they outlawed them. The twelve were banished beyond the help or hearth of all their kindred forever more. And the Ritual of the Sun was discarded by our people.”

  “Discarded?”

  “The Ritual of the Sun opens the mind of the celebrant to the wonders of creation,” Sorcha explained. “Through the deep meditative trance one enters when conducting the Ritual one may glimpse the unity of all things. Some among the wise call this awareness Oneness. Once a practitioner understands they are merely part of everything that exists, it is possible to exert some influence over the world about them.”

  “I was taught the principle of Oneness when I was an apprentice Druid,” Dalan noted. “Yet I don’t have the ability to alter my surroundings at will.”

  “Knowing it in your head is one thing.”

  She tapped her forehead with a finger then moved it down to point at her heart.

  “But experiencing it with every fiber of your being is another matter altogether. Stories may explain the world but experience is the only teacher worth listening to.”

  “So the Evil Eye of Balor was created this way?” the Brehon asked.

  “Balor was not very adept. He created a crude enchantment which burned his enemies to ash with his gaze. If he had truly understood the force of the Ritual he would not have used such a clumsy method of defeating his foes.”

  “You were performing the rite when I arrived?”

  Sorcha nodded.

  “Do you have this ability? Can you change the world about you to your will?”

  “And what would be the sense in that?”

  Dalan frowned when he realized she hadn’t answered his question. But he thought it best not to press her on this point.

  “I don’t recall learning that it was forbidden to perform the ritual,” the Brehon commented.

  “It was outlawed on pain of banishment.”

  “Yet it’s merely frowned upon now,” Dalan asserted. “Times have changed. The assembly is more tolerant nowadays.”

  “The redcaps are another matter though,” Sorcha added quickly.

  The Brehon cast an uneasy eye over the circle. “There are those among the College of Druids who would condemn you for this practice,” he agreed.

  “Only because they are afraid of it,” Sorcha countered. “Yet in truth there are many who keep this ritual.”

  “Many?”

  “Oh yes, but those among us who have the knowledge prefer to keep it to ourselves,” the young woman confided. “We all fear the same fate as those twelve Druids of old.”

  “You seem to know a lot of tales I’ve never heard,” the Brehon observed. “What became of those dissenting Fir-Bolg?”

  Sorcha raised her eyebrows, surprised at the question. “I thought you would have understood that by now,” she told him. “I was under the impression you had researched this story thoroughly.”

  Dalan frowned deeply and searched her eyes for an answer. It was clear he had no idea what she meant. So Sorcha explained it to him.

  “The twelve who deserted their kindred were adopted by the Fomor at the insistence of Balor. They lived among those people, married and passed on their knowledge, and when Balor asked their help they gave it willingly. He had become like a father to them. So when he needed nine skilled Druids for a task that would bring down a terrible fate on the Fir-Bolg and the Danaans, he knew he could rely on their support.”

  “Who were these traitors?” Dalan whispered, for he had begun to draw a terrible conclusion and he was half afraid Sorcha would confirm it.

  “The three who remained were initiates of the Ritual of the Sun. They helped heal the Fomor of the many maladies which afflicted their race. Until this time they were a misshapen people who hated every beautiful thing on Earth. Their ability to manipulate the realm of the material world ensured their acceptance among the Fomorians. These three were also given stewardship over the Evil Eye.”

  “And what of the nine whom Balor had chosen?” the Brehon pressed, though he had already guessed the terrible truth.

  “The names they were given at birth are lost and long forgotten,” she informed him. “No one can guess to which clans they all belonged. But nine of the twelve became known to all, at length, as the Watchers.”

  “The Watchers were of the Fir-Bolg?” the Brehon asked, stunned that such a thing might be possible. “What else do you know about them?”

  “I know the tale of their enchantment and the method. I know about the seven sleepers in stone. And when I was a Druid in training I was told the manner in which they might be released from that bond, but I only ever heard that Draoi song once in my whole life.”

  “You must try to remember it!” the Brehon cried. “If you set the Watchers free from their enchantment, many others will be saved from further suffering.”

  “I was very young and I had many more important matters on my mind when I heard that song.”

  “You must recall it!” Dalan insisted. “The future of all the peoples of Innisfail is in your hands.”

  Sorcha put up her hands to calm him. “I have tried many times to recall the song—it slips from my memory each time.” She paused a moment, then said, “I am but a humble student of the Draoi craft, yet I think I may be able to compose a song myself. I have already collected three melodies which I hope will embody the required elements.”

  “You’ll make a song yourself?” Dalan asked in amazement.

  “I know of no other way. Balor guarded the secret of his enchantment jealously to the last and only one Danaan Druid in each lifetime since has known the true nature of it. Besides, I’m fairly certain the actual song itself wasn’t passed down through the generations, merely echoes of it.”

  “If you intend to compose a new melody, how long will that task take?”

  Sorcha shrugged her shoulders. “It will take as long as it must. The more I concentrate on the problem the more likely I am to find a solution to it.”

  “Will you come back with me to the new settlement at Aillwee?” Dalan asked.

  Sorcha raised her eyebrows. “Is the situation really that desperate? Do the Watchers pose such an immediate threat?”

  “I’ve spoken with them,” the Brehon told her grimly. “They warned me they would bring all their talents to bear against t
he peoples of this land unless I find a way to free them.”

  The words had no sooner left his mouth than Sorcha leaped over the ring of mushrooms and grabbed his sleeve. As she pulled him close she whispered urgently in his ear.

  “Say nothing more of this till we’re safe within my house. The night may carry your words a distance on the evening breeze. I had no idea that events had come this far. There are other bitter wandering spirits who would be cheered no end if they knew the Watchers were intending to spread havoc.”

  “Others?”

  “This is a discussion for around the fire. We’ll be safe there. None come to my hearth but those I’ve invited.”

  Dalan nodded and Sorcha let go of his sleeve. Then she quickly doused her fire, swept the hearthstone and gathered her gear.

  The shadows were already deep by the time they climbed down the face of the rock to the pool.

  “Follow me,” Sorcha told Dalan, and then, without waiting for him to shoulder his pack, she marched purposefully off into the shadows, the darkness retreating before her rush light.

  The Brehon watched the evening shadows swell around her body as she passed through them like a seal swimming through a calm sea. Then he ran to catch up with the Druid woman as she made her way out of the little valley into the night.

  Chapter 6

  EBER FINN RODE HIS CHARIOT AROUND THE FIELD UNTIL he was sure old Máel Máedóc had gone and would not return. Then he pulled his warhorse to a halt at a respectable distance from the ancient ritual ground not far from the fortress of Dun Gur.

  He quickly dismounted the war-cart and walked a few paces to stretch his legs. He knew his mare would not stray with the heavy chariot while there was green grass to be nibbled at.

  When he’d loosened up the muscles in his legs he worked on his arms and hands as he would do before a battle, preparing himself to move quickly without straining. Once he was satisfied that he was ready to begin blade practice the king unsheathed his sword and briefly drew his thumb along the edge. Satisfied the weapon was not too dull he swung it around a few times in the air. Then in a sudden burst of battle fury he slashed at three invisible opponents one by one, reveling in the exalting rush of blood that resulted from these exercises.